


alas, poor men, their destiny

by TolkienGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Not exactly a fix-it fic, absolutely positively no slash, title and quote inside from The Oresteia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 20:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9343214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Molly and John have told him he is dying. It is nothing he does not already know.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Please, no spoilers! I haven't seen the finale yet.

_drag the deed to light, while drips the blade – The Oresteia_

Molly and John have told him that he is dying. It is nothing he does not already know.

What they don’t know is just how quickly it could happen. How much closer heaven has begged him march towards hell. How much ground he still must cover, how pain is a necessary equation when the result is duty.

No court in England would find him guilty, but it does not matter. The wrath of the world never matters when face of the dead is one beloved.

 

 _Jesus,_ Molly breathes. She’s checking his vitals, and there are tears in her eyes.

Sherlock is too tired, too honed and whittled down to _purpose_ to reassure her, he’s been worse. He’ll be worse.

Give him time. Give him only time enough.

 

He’s never apologized to Mycroft, for all the trouble caused. Never acknowledged that Mycroft’s unquenchable thirst for data, for intel on all possible angles and twists of the world’s own fractals might very much have to do with the many times of _lost_ , person not adjective, brother not stranger, archenemy if that was all the younger would give.

Mycroft has never really apologized to him, either. Not when it counted.

 

John once said, _Why did they have to die?_

A question on a case; he had not meant it naively. How could he? He was a soldier; war was his bread. Death was what he knew first and last, waking and sleeping.

It was Sherlock who vowed something else. Sherlock who though _Sumatra_ could be built by hands and hands and mind and maybe, shamefully, _heart_.

 

In the ambulance, Molly’s hands are steady and cold. Her voice is shaking. Molly loves him. He has known that a long time, he supposes, but mostly, he makes himself forget.

“I don’t imagine it’s any use asking you _why_ ,” she bites out. He feels vaguely sick, as he has for weeks now, tumbling along with Molly all in white, the avenging angel who wants nothing _less_ than to avenge.

John is following them, because the game is on. John loves it as much as Sherlock, though he does not always want to.

“None at all,” he answers. Not because he does not want to tell her, but because he cannot. It is part of hell, part of the vow he broke.

Mary must have known he’d break it for a long time. He still wonders, in that final moment, why she jumped.

 

His parents— _their_ parents—are titans of normalcy. They cannot, it seems, be made to suffer. (He knows. He has tried.)

They loved their children. One, two, three. Mycroft. Eurus. Sherlock.

He loves them, too, but he cannot trust them. Mostly, he makes himself forget.

 

“Sherlock, whatever mad scheme you’ve got planned—please, don’t be so bullheaded and—” He doesn’t often see Molly like this. Torn up and white-lipped.  He holds out his hands when she asks, breathes the way she tells him to. The things he gives her are never the things she really would ask of him.

So she doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t give, and maybe, just maybe, Molly stays alive that way.

(Mary never asked. He gave. And Death meets them both with surprise in ageless eyes.)

 

 _I killed his wife_.

He thought he’d seen John Watson broken. He thought he’d seen John Watson angry.

He’d thought he could die without dying, vow without breaking, live without learning to let go.

He welcomes the pain, because it’s going to save one of them, if only there’s enough time.

_Yes, you did._

He learned early the many moods of John. He has always taunted John for being dull. It is not so. John was awed, irritable, patient by turns. Inexorably loyal. Then knowing, generous, honest, exasperated. And still, forever loyal.

It is always the loyal who are crushed. They walk on ledges, on rooftops, on dreams that cannot hold them.

He fell so John would not have to.

After that final moment, after Mary, he wonders why he jumped.

_It's not a pleasant thought, John, but I have this terrible feeling from time to time that we might all just be human._

John once thought Sherlock was invincible, the hero.

He had it the wrong way round.

And Sherlock? He is spat out by hell, as Mary wished it. He is not the hero, even if marble would sooner mold his memory than John’s. He is not invincible, and John is not angry anymore.

_Even you?_

_No. Even_ you.

 

The loyal ones stand on the ledge, on the dream, on the chance. If they looked below their feet, they might perish. If they jumped, they might save no one. They stand there all the same.

Mostly, they make themselves forget.


End file.
